


Twenty-One Days

by Lena42



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Action/Adventure, Art, Case Fic, F/M, Fluff, Humor, Organized Crime, Romance, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-03-20
Updated: 2020-03-20
Packaged: 2021-03-01 02:14:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,471
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23227687
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lena42/pseuds/Lena42
Summary: Evelyn Reseigh is an art conservationist and restorer, that description varies on who you ask. When a lead on a cold case from 25 years ago comes to light, she has no choice but to look toward the World's Only Consulting Detective.
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/Original Female Character(s)
Kudos: 3





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first fic, with the coronavirus going on in the world and being contained in my studio apartment, I will finally have the time to focus on this story...maybe. Leave reviews if you'd like, i would appreciate it.
> 
> Also, I am blaringly American. So if I get slang, spelling, and/or locations wrong, feel free to correct me :)

**Introduction – 21 st July 2015**

The roar of an engine slowed to a hum from the street below. Voices drifted through the propped window, open to air out the flat from the previous day’s experiment. Sulphur is an element to be reckoned with.

A thought brought him from his languid idling on the sofa.

_Client. Female._

A half-second tap of the doorbell, the cautious opening of the front door, Mrs. Hudson’s fussing.

_Heartbeat in ears. Significant rise in blood pressure. Prehypertension evident. This is going to be a good one._

The steps to the landing of the flat creaked. Sherlock moved to the leather armchair near the fireplace, careful to place himself casually. It has the best viewing of entryway.

_Steps are uneven, disjointed. Hudson is at the peak effectiveness of her herbal soothers. Second pair of steps are light, evenly distributed, and hesitant. Client is 176 cm, size 6 shoe, a dancer and unsure of her decision to be here. Common._

A slight rap against the door frame. The door is always open, too much effort to close it. Everyone lets themselves in regardless.

“Sherlock,” Mrs. Hudson’s voice was cheerful as always. “…you have a client. How wonderful! I know you throw such dreadful fits. This will help keep your mind occupied.” Sherlock rolled his eyes. _I am not a child. I am thirty-four. Thirty-four, six months, and fifteen days, thank you very much._

He turned his gaze to the woman uncomfortably standing next to his landlady. Mid-length brunette hair, brown eyes, lashes thick and full, fair complexion, slight sheen of sweat evident, mesomorph body type, about 30 years old. _Attractive physical characteristics. High temperature across London, coupled with general anxiety expected of new clients is responsible for sweat. Despite sweat no makeup displacement; natural of face. Body type uncommon for a dancer, was not able to fulfill expectations required for the profession._ Sherlock let his lip quirk slightly, one army doctor may call it a smirk. _Confident with what she has and practical. Interesting._

With a look that could not have taken more that two seconds, Sherlock _dissected._ White shirt half tucked into waistband, dark washed denim jeans and low-heeled oxford boots, simple silver watch across right wrist, and flat silver ring on second finger of left hand, satchel leather and unisex. _Extremely practical._ Sherlocks eyes twinkled. _Wrinkles back of shirt and at knees; long cab ride, dust at heel from Charing Cross Station or Embankment Station…too similar need more data. Newly arrived in London from Heathrow Airport. Left hand dominant, hates her father, very little family, although well-off. Wristwatch of high quality, traditional oxford boots, jeans of affluent brand, shirt tailored, silver ring polished frequently, satchel is leather and well-used._

With a soft inhale she spoke, “Hello, my name is Evelyn Reseigh. I am here to ask for your assistance Mr. Holmes.”


	2. 21st July 2015

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Switching between POV is tricky

**Day One. – 21 st July, 2015**

Evelyn Rose Reseigh was a sensible girl. She should find a help from a more reliable source, but instead she found herself using the public’s most revered “private” detective, which led her to the center of London. 221B Baker Street to be precise.

 _The Science of Deduction_. The page was bookmarked on her mobile. _Analysis of Tobacco Ash? This must be fake. The World’s Only Consulting Detective, Scotland Yard would never consult a person so obviously unqualified._

The cab engine slowed to a hum, then to a stop. After a half hour cab to debate the possibilities of this being at all worth the trouble, Evelyn had nothing to lose. She would be at square one once more.

Evelyn placed several notes in the cabbie’s outstretched hand, let her eyes wander across the front of the cab. _Nails unkempt, shirt ill-fitted and well worn. Photograph stuck to the mirror of the cab, torn in half. Two children, raising alone, mother ran out with a lover._ Evelyn added another note. _Not much, but enough for ice lollies in the park._ The cabbie grinned at the wad of notes clutched in his hand. “Would you like me to return in fifteen minutes, Miss?” with a nod towards the doorway. “I’m here three times a week, they always come out in ten minutes’; pale, dead silent. Should save myself the trouble, yeah?”

_That’s a comforting statement. He has many people seeking his services, so there must be some basis for his work._

“Thank you, no. I’m sure it won’t be necessary.” Evelyn gave a tentative review of the doorbell of 221 Baker street. _At least I hope so._

The cab engine roared to life once more as it left her on the threshold. _Better now than never. Doorbell or knocker, why does this door have both?_ Evelyn gave a timid tap to the ivory button along the right of the doorframe. Despite the bustle of London behind her, a closing door could be heard, and the slight shuffle of footsteps. The door opened slowly.

Evelyn quickly cleared her throat. “Hello, my name is Evely—”

“Oh! Hello dear, are you here to see Sherlock? John never brings women around.” The elderly woman appeared in full view, flashing Evelyn a kind smile, “Come on then! You’re a client! You couldn’t have come at a better time, love. Sherlock was about to throw a fit.” Evelyn regarded the woman, her late grandmother came to mind immediately, “I’m Ms. Hudson, the landlady.” For some reason it sounded as if she was speaking from a script.

“Evelyn Reseigh, new to London. I have a situation which may require Mr. Holmes assistance.” Evelyn took Mrs. Hudson’s lead over the threshold in to a dimly lit stairwell, up seventeen steps, they creaked ominously. Evelyn made note of the landlady’s uneven footing and the slight stutter at the base of the stairs. _Old age perhaps?_ Evelyn caught the scent of something _her_ grandmother had never used. _I really shouldn’t be surprised that this is an unconventional household._

“Don’t worry about that dear! Sherlock will do plenty to help. He has such a kind heart, though bless him to ever admit it.” Mrs. Hudson gave a slight rap against the wide-open door of a flat, the pungent smell of rotten eggs carried on a slight breeze of an open window someplace. Evelyn wrinkled her nose.

“Sherlock,” Mrs. Hudson’s voice gave way to a cheerful tilt. “You have a client. Aren’t you so lucky? I know you throw such dreadful,” Evelyn’s mouth upturned slightly at the pause. “Fits.” ‘Tantrum’ lingered at the end of the landlady’s tongue. Quickly Hudson continued, “This will help keep your mind occupied.” Evelyn peered around Mrs. Hudson’s shoulders and placed herself uncomfortably at her side.

Evelyn had seen photos of course. The Sun has a never-ending supply of the “private” detective, but nothing could have prepared her for the sight of the man before her. The tabloids took away the gravitas which encompassed him. She didn’t blame others for running, Mrs. Hudson herself was making her way quickly down the creaking steps.

He sat tall and structured in an armchair in full view of the doorway. His arms brought to his face, hands steepled beneath his jaw. Ebony hair formed a reckless halo on top his head. Evelyn shifted in her place as the eyes of this man roamed across her body, it was not the feel of appraisal which she was accustomed. It was an inspection, she felt as if she were an open book. His eyes were striking, the color of ice and the stormed sea.

With a subtle clearing of her throat she spoke, “Hello, my name is Evelyn Reseigh. I am here to ask for your assistance Mr. Holmes.”

John’s week has been steadily increasing to intolerable levels of insane. Sherlock was running through experiments at a rapid pace and John could not keep him entertained for much longer. Escaping to the clinic was no longer an option, Sherlock would just have him paged. There were new experiments in the fireplace, grotesque substances lingering on the planes of windows, and the whole bloody flat stunk of sulfur. Some would think the place was possessed, as only the other-worldly could have produced this madness. Though Sherlock was convinced the brimstone and fire was a side effect of genius.

John, the brawn, housekeeper-at Ms. Hudson’s insistence- and the all-around Sherlock expert, was born out of necessity and insistence of colleagues. Whenever Sherlock was tempting a beating, John was the moderator. The declared ambassador of Baker Street. Mycroft, Sherlock’s elder brother, sent business cards with the following inscription after the posting of John’s first case:

_Dr. John Watson M.D._

_Ambassador, Writer, Detective_

_221 B Baker Street_

_jwatson@johnwatsonblog.co.uk_

[ _www.johnwatsonblog.co.uk_ ](http://www.johnwatsonblog.co.uk)

John, although amused by the subtle jab of siblings, did not touch the 300 or so cards for a month, as to not break alliances. But, even Sherlock would admit, as the cases became more diverse and clients became more numerous the cards became practical.

“The first bloody act Mycroft has done that isn’t entirely obnoxious,” Sherlock acknowledged.

“Careful now, some would think you’ve turned over.”

John knows Sherlock. So as from across the flat in the kitchen, he knew that Sherlock was interested in whatever case this woman at the door presented. Abandoning a nearly boiled kettle, he took post in his armchair in the sitting room.

“Hello, my name is Evelyn Reseigh. I am here to ask for your assistance Mr. Holmes.” She had a sweet smile and warm eyes, “I apologize for intruding, but I believe I may have a case that would be of interest.” Her voice was a sweet tilt, a posh accent worn and barely there. _Must be well traveled._ John was not on the pull usually, but why pass? _Let’s see if she’d be up for a pint after this case is over and done._

“Please have a seat Evelyn,” John stood and cleared up the newspapers littering the sofa, moving them to the floor as every level surface in the flat was overrun with knick-knacks and curiosities. The customary chair that was pulled from the kitchen was in the fireplace, crudely disassembled and chucked in an act of pyromancy a few hours before.

“Mind the lady-birds John, they’re important.” Sherlock murmured, his hands remained rested at his jaw. Eyes rapt on the figure stuck in the entry way of 221 B. John softly placed the jar, marked with a hasty 38 in felt-tip, of what seemed like churning red and black buttons on the fireplace mantle.

“If the top pops off, I know there is 38, and I would expect them back into the glass by the end of the day.” John turned his attention towards Evelyn, “Please,” John extended an arm towards the recently cleared sofa, “…have a seat. Don’t mind the smell, it’s only Sulphur.” John gave what he hoped was a comforting smile.

“Thank you,” Evelyn navigated her way around strewn newspapers, and a copy of Italian Vogue, littered with notes of interest, one of which caught her attention. _Illegally obtained, Limpopo river crocodile._ She made left a mental note, _I knew it, that handbag could not have been “vintage” as they claimed._

Situated on the sofa Evelyn took a calming breath, “I will do us all a favor and make this quick, I am here with a lead on the Gardner theft.”

John felt his hope fall. _Bollocks, I need to call Sarah and have her block all Sherlocks known numbers to the clinic, there’s no way I can stay in this flat until a real case comes along._

“Now John, don’t make that face. Let’s hear her out.” Sherlock had that twinkle in his eye, “Ms. Resiegh, what information could you possibly have on a case from 1990?”

­­­­­­­­­­­­­---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Evelyn noticed the kettle that just went off, “We might need a bit of tea, this is going to be a long story. If you wouldn’t mind.”

“You read my mind.” John eyes had a certain twinkle in them. Evelyn made herself comfortable among the clutter. John left the armchair and returned to his kettle. Evelyn heard his firm steps into the kitchen, then the opening, closing of cupboards, “How do you take yours Evelyn?”

“Black, with sugar please.” Evelyn called from the sitting room. “You can start your story, I can hear you just fine from here.” John called back.

Evelyn gave a brief explanation of the most basic facts of the case, everyone who was alive in the 90’s knows the story. “On the 18th of March in 1990 in the dead of night, the Isabella S. Gardner Museum in Boston, Massachusetts had 13 pieces of art stolen. Valued at 500 million US dollars collectively, many people have tried to recover the lost works, only to fail each time, none have been collected to date. Among which was Rembrandt’s only seascape, _The Storm on the Sea of Galilee_ , also included was _The Concert_ by Vermeer. _The Concert_ itself is valued at 200 million US dollars. These 13 paintings were slashed from frames with little care, motion sensors only detected the security guard on the premises, which makes these thieves either skilled or it was an inside job. The guard on duty was easily overtaken, they entered through the back entrance,” Evelyn stopped abruptly, as Sherlock let out a deep puff of hot air.

“I couldn’t have been someone familiar with art theft, the value of the art was severely degraded from the abysmal removal of the canvas from frame. Also, please get on to the facts I don’t already know.” Sherlock spoke as if to a child, “Tell me information the FBI do not know or please leave as your wasting my time and John’s.”

John returning with tea, two mugs precariously balanced in one hand, Sherlock’s mug in his left. “Not good, Sherlock.” John left the steaming cup of tea to the right of the detective, “He’s a bit rough around the edges, but…” John gave Evelyn a small smile, “…please do get to the information.” John handed over her tea across the coffee table.

Evelyn gave a small frustrated huff, “I wasn’t sure if you’d be familiar with the case since it was twenty-five years ago, you must have been around nine years. Even someone of your standard couldn’t know all the facts.”

“It was the biggest art robbery to date. My profession is in the criminal underground. I don’t need a school teacher lecture in my own field.”

“Fine,” John raised his eyebrows at Evelyn’s retort, he heard that _Fine_ in many a woman, “Robert Gentile, does that name register in your database?” Evelyn leaned herself casually backwards on the sofa, “Well recently he got in contact with his lawyer, offering information to shorten his sentence in the states.” As if she pulled an ace in poker, she smiled.

“And how did you come upon this information Ms. Reseigh? I was under the impression there is a Lawyer-Client confidentiality.”

“A woman has her ways,” Evelyn was under no circumstance admit that she had tapped the law offices landline hoping to eventually get a lead.

“Ah… To be a woman in today’s world. Always underestimated.” Sherlock almost looked approving, “No matter your ways, what is this information?”

“Before the idiot director of the Bureau Art Crime team completely snuffed out all the people with leads with his fumbling, he got into contact with two criminals who go under the name Laurenz and Sunny. Laurenz had information offering _The Concert_ as collateral for a loan of 500,000 US dollars. Bob Whittman, the idiot director, lost his hand when Sunny was tipped off that he was apart of the Bureau. The person who tipped them was Robert Gentile.” She took a dainty sip of her cooling tea, “Robert Gentile is the man who ferried the art from the Gardner Museum to an undisclosed location. According to him the names of the others is Miles Conner and a low rank gangster that isn’t even worth mentioning, most likely deceased.”

“Miles Conner is an American art thief, supposedly reformed and a Bureau informant. He had a hand in the dealings for a while, he processed the art pieces through a fence, effectively getting them out of the country before the morning arrived. All of this was disclosed to his lawyer, who was to bargain for a probation hearing, so Robert at 87 years old could spend his remaining days in the company of his wife. Robert also had the name of the commissioner of the theft, Saracco.”

“Saracco, isn’t a name I heard of.” Sherlock acknowledged, “What allows you believe Mr. Gentile is telling the truth?”

“After hearing this information, I got in touch with some connections, to see if I could get more information. A week later, I got a surprise. A Van Gogh original from the blue period, the pride of my personal collection was defaced with a slash of green across the canvas, copper acetoarsenite, I found, after I got the painting restored.”

“Paris Green? No longer manufactured, but easily homecooked, but definitely not an amateurs’ choice.” Sherlocks hands returned to their steepled position underneath his chin, “This is not the only action that has roused you. What is in your bag Evelyn?” Sherlock’s gaze locked onto the satchel.

Evelyn clutched the bag against her chest, debating if she could solve this case on her own. “You are not from London, you came all the way from New York to get my help, you know you cannot do this without me. This must have been left for no more than a week.”

Evelyn started, he knew, she was so careful to keep it under wraps. With a sigh she opened the satchel and pulled what looked to be a miniature mahogany chest, with a dark canvas lining. Opening carefully, she removed a bronze eagle about 10 centimeters in height and 15 cm in width, the eagle showed its full wingspan, and was positioned as if kneeling, ready to take flight.

Sherlock eyes crinkled, and a madman’s grin tore his face in half, “A Napoleonic bronze eagle finial.” Sherlock leapt from his armchair and over the coffee table to snatch the eagle from Evelyn’s careful hands, he held it to the summer light of the windows. “John! It’s the original. This is a case! Finally, a case! It is the case of the century!”

“Careful with that!” Evelyn shouted to the detective, leaping from her seat, and tried to pry the eagle from his grasp, just out of her reach. “I didn’t come to you just for you to carelessly handle pieces.” Sherlock let her take the finial, “Thanks for not dropping it,” Evelyn spat, “This is not the only piece that was left for me, there’s also a letter.”

“A letter?” John echoed. Sherlock’s face was still locked in a grin, a bit disconcerting really.

“Yes, a letter,” Evelyn eyed Sherlock suspiciously, as if he was going to swoop down on her once more, “It’s here,” She pulled a cream envelope contained in a plastic zip bag from her satchel. “It was left in my business postbox on the 17th of July, I haven’t told the authorities nor the museum.”

“Clever girl.” Sherlock took the piece of parchment, examining in detail with a magnifying glass seemingly pulled from the air. The letter was of high quality, heavy weight paper, original linen, expensive even if you know the right people, the only marks were of the address in the center printed, return address absent. “You want the pieces for yourself, or for another.”

Evelyn’s eyes flittered then settled on the detective once more, there’s no use lying he’ll know in a heartbeat. “I am more interested in the Vermeer, for personal reasons, if I pick up a few more then what’s the harm.” She gave a slight shrug, “My personal motivations will not impede the search. If anything, it makes me plenty more earnest.”

“Who else knows?” Sherlock moved across the room to his microscope on the kitchen counter.

“Just the people in this room.” Evelyn gave a wary look to John, _Army doctor, mid-thirties, honest, kind, supportive, great husband material if he wasn’t an adrenaline junkie._

“At ease, soldier.” Evelyn caught John’s eyes.

“Christ, do I have a tattoo of ‘Soldier’ across my forehead?” John settled into the sofa with a contemplative expression overtaking his eyes.

“John, an idiot would know. Your entire being screams military.” While John considered this information Sherlock continued his examination, “You haven’t opened the letter. This is the original sealing.”

It wasn’t a question, but Evelyn answered anyways, “I am not a genius, but I do know I didn’t want to lose the valuable information that would be inside, if there would be fingerprints, tells that only a trained professional would see. I do admit that I am out of my depth.” Evelyn gave a careful look over Sherlock’s shoulder, “It didn’t set off airport security, if that helps.”

“Bit of a risk, considering the contents may have been time sensitive.”

“It’s been 25 years since the theft, the only thing we have is time.”

Sherlock gave what may have been a heavy breath or a laugh depending on who’s listening.

Evelyn moved forward bringing her head over the detective’s shoulder. “I did a bit of research on my part, I know that the paper is expensive, and the lack of postage means it was delivered in person, though the security cameras did not catch anyone unfamiliar. So, slipped in with the postman’s deliveries. I couldn’t track it any further without tampering into all the camera’s in the metropolitan area.”

Sherlock paid no attention to the intrusion of his space, “This letter is made from linen, from a little-known factory in France. Seems to hold a single sheet of heavy-weight parchment. Would you like to know what’s inside?” Sherlock gave a boyish grin to the woman at his side.

“I thought you’d never ask.”

With what could have only been called a pirouette Sherlock beamed, “John! Set the kettle!”

__________________________________________________________________________________________

John, Evelyn, and Sherlock stood above the kettle, steam rising in a steady speed. Carefully, armed with a scalpel, and a set of tweezers, Sherlock held the envelope seam over the vapor, patiently moving from the left to right. As the adhesive warmed it loosened allowing the lip to open easily with a slight nudge of the scalpel, Evelyn took the tweezer and removed the letter contained within. Sherlock with gloved hand opened the letter.

_The paintings are safe. Some are a bit worse for wear, but after 25 years, aren’t we all? The Vermeer is with me, tucked and cozy. The rest are scattered, but if you find one, I let you find another. Pull one thread and the work will become undone._

_There’s a clue, hidden in a chest covered with a night’s cloth, is the first in your hunt. Miss Evelyn you pursued a dangerous game. I hope you’ll not disappoint._

It was in a generic typewriter font, the ink standard and purchasable from nearly every department store in England. It was signed with a simple ‘X’.

“Seems a bit theatric,” Evelyn mused.

“All the better for us. It’s the first concrete lead in 25 years.” Sherlock continued with his examination, pulling the sheet of paper underneath a microscope and ignoring all else.

John made a notion towards the sitting room with his head. “Our tea is getting cold. We can discuss the case details.”

“Does this mean that he is taking the case?” Evelyn felt hopeful, the detective is at least living up to his reputation.

“No one is really sure with Sherlock, but everything looks good so far.” John sat back in his armchair. Though, Evelyn remained standing.

“Well with payment I can put down 10,000 pounds now, and with completion 10% of the proceeds once the paintings are recovered.” Evelyn gave a confident smile, John felt as if he was the person being taken advantaged of, even at 10,000 pounds.

“Come now Evelyn, you do realize how dangerous this case is turning out to be. Ten-thousand is a bit of a low estimate, for the cost of my and John’s time.” Sherlock mumbled, eyes still trained on the eyepiece of the microscope.

“Fine. Ten-thousand and the finial upon completion. Deal?”

Sherlock gave a non-committal hum.

John rolled his eyes, “Don’t let him get to you, you’ve certainly been generous.” John placed a gentle hand on Evelyn’s upper arm, “Are you going to be in London long?”

“As long as this case takes. I’m on a freelance basis.” Evelyn answered.

“Freelance basis? I’m definitely familiar,” John nods his head as he says, “What exactly do you do for work?’

“I work in restoration and as an insurance investigator.” Evelyn responded.

“And how does that work for you?” John honestly did not know what exactly restoration for personal belongings was, but he did think it was not as mundane as Evelyn was trying to make it sound. Evelyn stayed quiet, her focus on Sherlock eyes still trained on the microscope.

“John, she does not live a mundane life. She’s and investigator. Though not hired by the Gardner Museum.” Sherlock moves his attention to Evelyn, “So who did hire you?”

Evelyn took a soft breath of air, “It’s none of your business, you have half of the money upfront, and I will give you any other information I may have about this issue, but please keep my personal life out of it.”

John chuckled, bringing Evelyn’s attention, “You’re not going to get far Evelyn. This man thrives on figuring every little detail of your life out.”

“Sherlock what was the name of my favorite toy as a child?”

Sherlock rolled his eyes, “Trunkers. Really John? Try harder it was your laptop password last week.”

John rose his eyebrows at Sherlock, “See? Only people who would know that is my mother and my sister, but he figured it out without talking to either.” Evelyn huffed.

“Fine, keep any information you find on me to yourself.” Sherlock just hummed in response, already lost in his world. Evelyn stood and made for the door. “I will bring the check in the morning and you may keep the finial, to further any clues you might find on that as well.”

John walked her to the foyer just outside Ms. Hudson’s flat. “It was nice meeting you Evelyn I’m sure Sherlock will work this out soon.”

“I would hope so.”

Just outside the door to 221 B Baker Street shut softly. In the warm London air, and the buzz of the city, the scent of the deli right next door. Evelyn felt as if she stepped out of wonderland. The world of Sherlock Holmes was definitely worth stepping into.


End file.
